Oct 12

responsibilities

You Have To Be A Writer!
Emma said to me
finishing my letter
perfect painted fingernails
sliding creases closed.
She said this and
I remembered 
other things I thought I had to do;
call my mother,
go to sleep before
two,
finish my article;
but I found
I preferred
eating cereal
in a hostel kitchen at 
one am
perched on the 
counter top
spoons delicate to bowls
like cotton on cotton
tears falling
for the home
we were soon to leave behind. 
 
Oct 02

transformed sunday circles

sunday is for lying
in my pink bed,
staring at the ceiling,
my room
reddened by bouncing rays
of light,
turning the color of autumn leaves,
as the Cranberries sing about
zombies and
dreams and
you and me
into my ears.

sunday is
undone algebra growing
cold as the hours pass
as I lay instead of working and
the sun sets,
anxiety like boiling
water bubbling
under my skin,
unanswered phone calls
understood things that
still sting,
false apologies and 
lies,
eyes squeezed
shut,
world tuned
out.

sunday is the shadow
of the lantern hanging from my window,
moving gently like a
setting moon,
eyes playing childish tricks
bigger
smaller
bigger
glowing
gone,
creamy white ceiling left
untouched.
a transformed
sunday circle
lazily drifting by
as my world
melts.
Aug 03

Missed opportunity

I wonder
where my home is;
sense of
place must be
lost to me,
l must be
missing a sense
that points me there.
The park bench
sticks to my thighs, 
sun,
uncomfortably warm on
my shoulders. 
I almost
mistake the feeling for
his head resting on them,
sitting on M’s bed. 
I miss
his arms around me,
him stepping on my heels,
hugging me goodbye
in the airport 
awkward around
our backpacks
heading for different places. 
My dad was there,
his wasn’t
(I heard him call his father
on the phone,
he was
at the office),
I forgot to say
“I love you”
tell him
all the things I’d practiced 
(I said “I love you”
he thought
I meant it in a different way),
and then
his stupid comic-book
sneakers
carried him away from me
towards his home,
away from mine. 
Jul 28

Unfinished

What does it mean to be 
Art and also
Artist,
a creation of
yourself only,
a product of
Growth of
Time of
People,
to be 
Important to someone and
Nothing to another?
To be
passed on the street 
and not Oggled
like the
unfinished Masterpiece 
you are?

(Something written while tired & sick & sad & missing some sort of home/some sort of family)
Jul 28

Inis Oirr II

Red tears run
on rock,
from this rusted mass
of metal.
I let my fingers
graze a dance
along
its surface.
A breath of wind
is a gentle sigh,
ruffling my coat
leaving a trail of bumps
on my arm.
It’s best not to
think,
best not to
imagine
being gone.
But I won’t leave
a part of this island untouched,
a loose end untied,
a ship-wrecked boat unexplored.
I only have these few days.
And it’s not enough.
 
Jul 28

Inis Oirr I

A land of drought,
surrounded by
water,
surrounded by
salt.
Misty mornings,
obscure the rocks
leading to the ocean.
Out the door
of our hostel is
little road,
then the open sea.
Telephone poles hover
like omens
in the distance,
I without my glasses
struggle to identify them.
Confusion swirls inside me,
I miss my family,
my bed,
but won’t I miss
this ashen-aired paradise
once I leave?
 
Jul 28

Tidal Pools- Inis Mor

A group of men
skipping rocks
their shouts
cracking the
reaching silence of this island.
I sit on ground
mossy with seaweed,
the ripples of stones,
piercing the blue-green water.
I lean,
hand outstretched
to balance me,
recoiling in shock
as it plunges
into liquid.
There is a brief moment
as the wind whips
as I see a
line of flags
pulled into a frenzy
as my hair is
blown across my face
and my lungs fill
with wind
and chill
and salt.
I give myself this moment,
then,
I pull my hand out of the tidal pool.

 
Jul 28

Counting

I can’t pinpoint exactly where
I switched,
from counting the days with relief,
to counting the days with
dread.
Somewhere between Howth
and Galway,
between salty fishing village
and crowded college city.
Between homesickness
and wonder,
loneliness
and discovery.
Between strangers
and friends.
I was too busy living
to pay attention
to when it happened,
but in any case,
I’ve stopped counting.
 
Jul 28

Clonmacnoise

Stone walls and
a sea of graves,
the whispering arch a
lighthouse in the dark.
the sun shines and
erases uncertainty,
leaves me
curious about the names
on the stones,
wary of the crows
winging through the air,
ready for whatever
is to come.

 

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